Where Am I Going to?
by Kilroy of 1918
Summary: A continuation of "Excessive Zeal", which can be considered a prologue to this main story. Now at the crossroads of the event which has changed both their lives forever and dashed their naive views of the world, Bramble and Dachlan must find their place in the world.
1. Chapter 1: Good Samaritans

Dachlan was lost, lonely, and miserable. In a panicked, headlong run he'd fled into the woods without a thought in his head, trying to escape from the hares who'd killed everyone he knew or cared about. There was, at the time, no thought given to direction or course, just the absolute certainty that if he did not get as far away from the hares as possible then he would be killed as horribly as his parents.

That was six days ago.

In that six day span, any hope of finding his way to the town his family was heading towards had fled. He would even have gone back to the village that they'd left if he could find the way. But all the trees looked the same now, and the way back to the road was impossible to rediscover. Besides, part of Dachlan would rather wander around in the woods for the rest of his short life than stumble upon the rotting corpses of his parents and his friends.

The only reason that Dachlan had yet to collapse was because at the end of the third day he'd found a small stream of dirty water and drank his fill of the stuff. But as to the matter of food, Dachlan had no luck. He did not yet have his mother's skill at recognizing plants or foraging, and so he couldn't find anything to eat, nor could he trap woodpidgeons. The one time he'd thought he was lucky enough to stumble upon some berries, he'd found out too late that they weren't fit for eating. Half a day spent doubled over in cramping, vomiting agony ensured that the experiment would not be repeated a second time.

By the end of the first day, the full impact of what happened hit Dachlan like a hammer stroke, and he'd wept and screamed until he exhausted himself into slumber. And as he trudged on, periodically he would tumble through another unstoppable fit of grief.

But by the end of the sixth day, as the last few inches of sun were slipping beneath the horizon, the outright bawling had stopped, giving way to a different kind of sorrow. This grief took on a different form, one of bitter, hot, but quiet tears; and dark, hateful thoughts made razor sharp by the feeling of being utterly alone.

It was because of those tears that Dachlan almost missed the faint glow of a campfire shining through the dense trees. Once it caught his eye, he staggered towards it, not caring who it belonged to; not caring whether they were hordebeasts or travelers. Dachlan's only hope was that they would have it in their hearts, however shriveled, to feed him and point him towards sanctuary. Surely even a hordebeast would see it fit to give a scrap to a starving kit! They were both vermin, after all. Too young and too hungry to be of a worldly mind, Dachlan didn't give a moment's thought to the possible danger he was putting himself in.

In a particularly ungraceful maneuver for a fox, Dachlan didn't step from the bushes into the small clearing, instead tumbling into the camp when a stray branch caught his footpaw. The young fox lay sprawled on the ground, unable to see exactly what manner of beasts he'd stumbled into the midst of. All he could hear were a small handful of gruff voices clamoring and arguing with each other about their new uninvited guest.

"What's that then?!"

"It's a fox, that's what! Run him through!"

"No! Don't do that!"

"Why not?"

"Why not? Can't you see he's only a dibbun?"

"I don't see how that matters! He'll grow up to be a foul little rotter like all the rest of them!"

"You can't kill a dibbun!"

"She's right, matey. You can't do that. It just doesn't bear thinking about."

"Fine! You two can be the little vermin's keepers! Just leave me out of it!"

"Right! Now stand up, son. Let's get a look at you."

A firm paw took hold of Dachlan's tunic and pulled him up, the young fox scrabbling to his footpaws and getting his first look at his saviors. Or were they captors?

Belligerant, pointy little faces in rugged tunics and a dress, all three wearing bandanas and carrying rapiers at their hips. Shrews! Dachlan felt as though his luck couldn't have been any worse unless he'd run straight into the hares who'd slaughtered the caravan after they'd started to head home. At the very least the female looked as though she might be sympathetic, though like the other two, she still looked suspicious of him, merely to a lesser degree. At least she didn't have the anger of the stocky male whose tunic was paired with a dull red vest. No doubt he was the one who just wanted to stab Dachlan and be done with the whole affair.

"Grubby looking runt, isn't he?" grumbled the male in the vest.

"Shush, Lodo! You wouldn't look much better if you were lost and all alone at his age!" The female shrew leaned in a bit, giving a slight smile and asking, "That's it, ain't it? You're lost?"

Dachlan said nothing, a scowl on his face as he stared up at the woodlander adults. His past experiences with shrews weren't exactly wonderful, and he didn't trust this "Lodo" character one bit.

The shrew who was still holding him by the tunic to prevent him from escaping gave the kit a bit of a shake, reprimanding him. "Now now, lad. Don't be rude. Answer Farla."

In a sulk-laden voice, Dachlan muttered, "Yes…"

"And where are your parents?"

The fox kit's eyes fell to the ground and he muttered something rendered unintelligible by the sniffling that accompanied it.

Farla quirked an eyebrow. "Did you make that out, Droddy?"

"No, not a word. A little louder, lad, if you please."

Dachlan started to weep in front of the shrews as the words caught in his throat, and he hated himself for it. Woodlanders killed his parents, and now he was going to start crying in front of them like a whipped pup just because of a few questions? It was completely unacceptable, and Dachlan knew it even at that age. Furthermore, he hated himself for showing that kind of weakness.

Still, he muttered out an answer, his voice trailing off after offering the bare minimum explanation. "M'parents were killed…"

"Oh, you poor thing!" blurted out Farla in an upwelling of pity. She reached out and gently patted Dachlan's headfur, her pity apparently still not extending to allow her to embrace a filthy, skinny little vermin.

Droddy's paw didn't loosen much around Dachlan's tunic, though he did make a noise that could only be described as a sympathetic huff. Meanwhile, Lodo wasn't about to stand for any of it. He couldn't understand why his two friends were so willing to take the word of a fox kit at face value. Were they really so unfamiliar with how sneaky foxes were that they'd be won over by a few tears and a sad story? It would only be a matter of time before the little vermin reminded them why the old adage of "crying foxes' tears" meant that somebeast was only acting pathetic so they could get what they wanted.

Lodo leaned down face to face with the young vulpine, the woodland garlic of his last meal assaulting Dachlan's nose as he interrogated him. Lodo's voice carried little sympathy for Dachlan, and bore the sort of risk-spurning firmness that would make a capable, if merciless, leader. Of course, Dachlan heard none of that. He only heard the voice of somebeast new to hate, somebeast who was intent on making him relive the worst moment of his life.

"How'd they die, boy? Are you a horde brat? Or were your ma and pa bandits who finally got what was coming to them?"

Droddy reached forwards and gave Lodo a bit of a shove, pushing him out of Dachlan's face. "The dibbun's parents just died. Have some mercy."

"That's not a dibbun, Droddy, that's a vermin! He's just a small one, and eventually he's going to grow up to be a big vermin! If I were log-a-log, I wouldn't let any of the Gousim have a single thing to do with the little blighter!"

Farla shot back, snapping her fingers at Lodo, "Well you aren't log-a-log yet! We can't just leave a little one out in the woods to starve!"

"Oh? So what's your solution then? Are we going to haul him back to the Guosim and teach him how to row with that big brush of his?" sneered Lodo.

This time Farla couldn't think of a thing to say. Lodo was right; they couldn't very well bring a vermin back home with them, but at the same time he she was unwilling to abandon a cub to the wilds. Such a thing was positively un-woodlander! No good solutions at all…

Meanwhile, Dachlan could only listen to the pair debate what should be done with him, the kit staying silent despite the dread that welled up inside. He was certain that eventually the good will would run out, and that he would be killed on the spot, just like those hares killed his parents. As he thought about how everything in his life changed, all within the course of an event that couldn't have lasted longer than a half hour, things far more grim than most would consider a cub of Dachlan's age capable of ran through his mind. They were the thoughts that ran through the minds of horde brats whose parents never came home from raids, and the thoughts of beasts who were pressed into servitude against their will.

Dachlan hated them. All of them. The hares, the shrews, even Farla who defended him. Dachlan hated them all and wanted them to feel the same kind of pain he felt; and then he wanted them to die.

Before Farla could cover her fluster with a stream of shrewish insults and fist-based negotiation, Droddy spoke up, ever the level head of the trio, playing now as he had in the past the role of the one sane beast amongst frothing hotheads. "Why don't we just take him to the abbey?"

Lodo threw up his paws, just as displeased with this suggestion as any of the previous ones. "So we try to put a vermin inside a place that his kind have been trying to steal for themselves for seasons upon seasons? Are you daft?"

Seeing a way out of the quandary, Farla leapt to agree with Droddy. "It's a good idea! Redwall takes in wayward dibbuns all the time."

"Oh aye! They do that all the time… with decent woodlander dibbuns, not vermin mongrels!" interjected Lodo.

"That's enough of that, Lodo," muttered Droddy levelly before the situation could devolve into another argument. "We'll take the fox to Redwall and he'll be out of our fur. If they need to deal with him, well… Redwall's dealt with enough vermin in the past to remember how."

Redwall! Dachlan's eyes went wide at the prospect of having to go there. When his mother and father were still alive, both of them made it quite clear that he should never go there, no matter what! They imparted into Dachlan the knowledge that vermin who go to Redwall, no matter whether they deserve it or not, would die. Often horribly. Even disregarding his parents, enough vermin he knew treated the place with a sort of reverent awe. It was at the same time mythic and real, a place that they could never hope to reach, where bounty was guaranteed, and where death was kind for the most part.

And though the stories were a bit muddled by time and overly-sympathetic retelling, Dachlan knew them and their message well. He could remember being told about Dingeye and Thura, hapless idiots who met their death after seeking refuge; Globby the stoat, abused by a cruel otter; Sela the healer, thrown to the wolves; the metamorphosis of Chickenhound from a harmless and sniggering brat to a vicious slaver. In all these retellings the vermin were cast into perhaps a kinder light than they deserved, but such a thing never crossed Dachlan's mind, and he had no reason to doubt the stories as truth.

Globby's story seemed awfully relevant right then. Dachlan wondered if he would be paddled by some oversized otter for every little thing, then attacked and killed when he tried to escape. The thought made him shudder and squirm in Droddy's firm grasp. Even if the shrew wasn't holding on to him so tightly –and he was- Dachlan was too tired and hungry to make even the attempt to wriggle away and flee back into the woods. He saw that he had no choice in the matter other than to let himself be led by the nose.

Droddy let go of Dachlan at last only to then grab onto him again by his wrists, pinning them together, the skinny fox kit staring up at him as he took out a length of rope and started to twine it around Dachlan's wrists.

"What are you doing?" asked Farla.

"Making a compromise," Droddy replied as he worked, finishing the improvised shackles with a tight sailor's knot. "We're taking him to Redwall as you wanted, but we're not trusting him, like Lodo wanted."

Now that the fox's wrists were tied, another length of rope was wrapped about Dachlan's neck, tight enough that he couldn't unwind it, but not quite enough to start choking him. Another knot, and beyond it a lead to make sure that Dachlan couldn't tear off into the woods half-trussed up.

Amongst most other species, the compromise would bring some sort of satisfaction to both sides of the argument, but for the pair of shrews, being of the mentality that anyone who wasn't for their side of the argument was wholly against them, the compromise failed to appease. For Lodo it didn't go far enough, and for Farla it was unnecessary and cruel; and furthermore made them look like a trio of slavers.

For Dachlan, it was both humiliating and frightening. He'd seen slavers before, and he couldn't keep himself from worrying that he may have wondered into the midst of the first shrews to take up the trade. For all he knew, Redwall would be the place where he would toil for the rest of his life. Did woodlanders drop all pretense and start taking vermin slaves as revenge? He could remember his mother talking about how some of the jobs she was forced to take in the more hostile woodlander towns paid so little and had such surly overseers that the difference between their situation and that of a slave was only a matter of a couple coins. At his age, Dachlan took those statements more literally than he should have.

Frightened, fatigued, and full of grief, Dachlan was in no fit state to think clearly about where he was being taken. Slavery or death would be his future for sure!

"We'll leave at first light tomorrow then," said Droddy.

There came muffled grunts of agreement from the other two shrews, and they began to bed down around the fire. Lodo kept facing Dachlan, his beady little eyes staring at the fox to make sure that he wouldn't do anything verminous. Under that watchful eye, he daren't try to escape. Dachlan was certain that even when Lodo slept, he would wake up at the first suspicious sound that the fox kit made. All that could be done was to wait and hope that the place he was being taken wouldn't be as horrible as he feared.

Dachlan lay down on the grass, as far away from the shrew he was tied to as possible, leaving the rope almost taut. Being able to lay down near a fire, even under these conditions, was a privilege after the exhausting romp through the woods. Hunger made finding sleep difficult though, and Dachlan curled up and tried to force his stomach to stop churning. Grass nearby crinkled as somebeast approached Dachlan, and his eyes snapped open again, beholding Farla walking towards him.

She crouched down and pressed a small shrewcake, some edible roots, and a water canteen into Dachlan's bound paws. Farla offered him a smile that faded in short order when it wasn't returned and thanks went ungiven. Instead, Dachlan stared up at her, his paws full of things to satisfy his stomach, yet they remained uneaten. It was only when Farla went back to her place by the fire and laid down that Dachlan tucked in, shoving food into his mouth and taking hefty gulps from the water canteen. In short order, there wasn't a crumb left, and Dachlan was licking dried honey from his paws.

With his stomach full, more full than it had been for days, sleep at last came easily for Dachlan.

"Wake up!"

Dachlan received a none-too-gentle kick to his flank from Lodo, the kit popping up and thrashing about at the unseen attacker with his bound paws. But he hit nothing, as Lodo was already pulled to the side to argue some more with Farla.

"There's no reason to do something like that!" she shouted.

"My eye there wasn't!" Lodo shouted back. "Those gentle little love taps you were giving the vermin weren't working at all, so I handled it!"

"Handled it?" Farla sputtered. "Then I hope you're never a father, or your way of rocking a dibbun to sleep could very well be shouting sea otter curses at it and then kicking it into a river!"

Droddy sighed and slipped up besides Dachlan, giving the lead tied to the rope about his neck a gentle tug. "Come on then, fox. We'll start on to Redwall. Those other two will catch up once they realize they've been left behind."

Lodo scoffed. "That wouldn't be as bad as what would happen to your dibbuns. You'd let them run off to play in fox dens and with sea rats, then be terribly shocked when some slavers offer to sell you your own babes!"

Dachlan didn't have time to hear Farla's retort, as soon Droddy had led him far enough through the trees that all that could be discerned was that somebeast was yelling at somebeast else who was then yelling back again. Dachlan had to admit that he was quite glad to be away from the pair. Their wit wasn't as cutting as some of the vulpine insults he'd heard before, nor was the fighting half as entertaining as a particularly rowdy vermin brawl.

At least, it wasn't until Lodo shouted out loud enough for his voice to carry through the trees. "Ouch! You hit me in the nose!" Now it was interesting again.

Suddenly Dachlan was terribly tempted to go back and see if Farla got hit back. He'd never gotten to see shrews beat each other up before! He liked to imagine that it was a great deal like a puppet show he'd seen in the street once where two bad-tempered puppets spent the entire show beating the absolute tar out of each other…

But Droddy grunted and gave the rope another tug as Dachlan slowed his pace to try and look over his shoulder. "Come along now. We don't want to take all day getting to Redwall. Ain't far."

Dachlan shot Droddy's back a dirty look and stuck out his tongue, but kept up the pace of the march. The rope around his neck was starting to chafe a bit, and it was humiliating to be restrained in such a manner. He dreaded being seen. Furthermore, with his paws bound, Dachlan couldn't be sure that he would be able to catch himself if he tripped over some of the brush or roots that littered the ground in the woods. He spent most of the walk with his eyes to the ground looking out for things that might trip him up, keeping as close to Droddy's shadow as possible so he didn't bump into any trees.

It was an hour or so later when Farla and Lodo finally caught up with Dachlan and Droddy. Both of them were wearing rumbled and dirt stained clothes now, and while Lodo was busy nursing a bleeding nose, Farla was cupping a paw over a black eye. It seemed that the argument had turned just as interesting as Dachlan thought it might have.

Bad tempers prevailed for a time, and the group continued towards Redwall Abbey in silence. Droddy was naturally more silent than either of his companions, and the latter two were still too miffed from the fight to be interested in chatting. Clearly neither of them had actually managed to win it, and the result was bitterness that was worse than if there was a clear victor and a loser. As for Dachlan, he tried his hardest not to talk with his woodlanders when they'd first met. Why should he start now?

A bit past midday, the tension finally broke when Droddy started singing a shrew marching song and left off in the middle, refusing to continue until his two friends took up the chorus. Soon enough all three were singing as though they were the best of friends again. Dachlan put up with it the best he could, being unable to cover his ears with his bound paws. Farla's pitch was too high, Lodo was too off-key, and Droddy was so monotone that he was half-speaking the lyrics.

The lyrics were the typical woodlander tripe: how nice the day was, how wonderful it was to live in Mossflower, or about the virtues of being a shrew. It wasn't like a lusty vermin song about adventure, looting, killing, or tragedy… Nor was it like the song a drunken searat taught Dachlan that had something to do with a tough captain of a pirate ship and his crew being on their knees to do something or another. Dachlan didn't fully understand it, but it must have been a great song, because his mother had whacked him on the tail and given him a thorough dressing-down when he'd sung it within hearing distance of her.

Dachlan's ears and tail drooped at the memory, and suddenly it was a little harder to keep pace as he dragged his footpaws along. He missed his parents to such an extent that even being told off was something to pine for. Harsh or gentle, he'd never hear the voices of his mother and father again for as long as he lived. He struggled to avoid turning on the waterworks, not wanting any of the woodlanders to see him weep. As it was, the three shrews were too caught up in their songs to notice Dachlan's glumness, and for that he was all too thankful.

Abruptly the singing stopped and the three shrews and the fox they had in tow stepped out onto a dirt road.

"It's amazing every time I see it!" gasped out Lodo, to which both Droddy and Farla gave out murmurs of agreement to.

Dachlan finally took his eyes off his footpaws and looked up. What he beheld was truly something worth gawping over, an image of stunning majesty that could slacken the jaw of even the most difficult to impress vole. By far Redwall Abbey -for it could be nothing else- was the largest building Dachlan had ever seen, something he was certain of even from a considerable distance away. Red sandstone walls that looked so robust as to be timeless enclosed the massive building, and Dachlan reflected on the fact that Redwall was even more vast than he first thought if one considered the land between the great structure and the walls themselves. With that in mind, Dachlan was certain that with a little bit of stacking, many of the villages he'd been to could be comfortably fit inside Redwall.

Now he knew why so many vermin referred to it as a fortress or a castle, and just why it would be such a boon for an ambitious warlord. What rival army could hope to topple _that_?

Farla looked over at Dachlan, catching the young fox with his mouth agape, and chuckled at him. "Can't stand around gaping all day. Come on fox. With any luck you'll end up living there and you can stare all you want."

The walk to Redwall wasn't terribly far, but the distance was deceptive all the same. The building was of such size that judging distance was made difficult, and Dachlan had to crane his neck back to try and see the top of the building once he was standing in front of the front gate with his three shrew guardians. He was so busy staring that he nearly jumped out of his fur when Lodo cupped his paws to his muzzle and bellowed out, "Logalogalogalogalog!"

A mouse leaned over the edge of the walltop, looking down at the strange little party below. He cupped his paws around to his muzzle and called back down, his voice far softer than Lodo's, even though they both had to shout to be heard. "Ho there, Guosim friends! What brings you to Redwall?"

Lodo called back, taking the lead. "Ahoy Redwallers! We have a bit of a… unique problem. Can we speak with the abbess?"

"I'll find her. Wait there for a tick, then I'll let you in."

The mouse's head vanished, and it soon enough there were several clicks and the heavy creak of wood from the front gate. It swung open, and Dachlan got his first look inside Redwall. He was right in guessing that it was massive. The courtyard that led to the building itself would be considerable even if it didn't give way to orchards, gardens, and a pond that likely had fish in it. Already this was more plenty than he'd ever seen in his life, and he doubted there was anything that Redwall couldn't provide its denizens.

Though he thought little of it at the time, the idea that he and those in his caravan spent so many years of his life without access to this privilege brought a twinge to his gut. In the back of his mind, he was jealous that while there were some stretches of time when he and his parents went hungry, these Redwallers were likely stuffing their faces full of all manner of delicacies. It brought on more memories of his parents, and how during a particularly harsh winter they were reduced to scraping by through eating a portion of their herbal stock. Anything that wasn't poison was cooked up into a thin, if highly spiced, soup. And whenever they were fortunate enough to come upon real food, Dachlan could remember that his parents would feed him the larges portion and make do with the scraps for themselves.

When the mouse who opened the door set eyes on Dachlan, puzzlement and shock covered his face, and as soon as the shrews and Dachlan were within the abbey and the gate closed tight behind them, the mouse ran off. Calling out over his shoulder in a slightly panicked voice, he seemed to have realized that he was responsible for letting a vermin into the abbey for the first time since before he was born.

"I'll get the abbess! Just wait there!"

He scampered off, only to return with a second mouse in tow, though the other was far older and greyer than the first. For her age, the abbess was doing an admirable job in keeping up with the younger mouse's hurried steps.

"Yes yes, Brother Samnel. I understand that something is amiss, but you've still yet to tell me what it is!" puffed the Abbess.

"Oh!" she exclaimed as her eyes alit upon the four new guests, and she gave Dachlan an especially long look. "Yes, I can see why this required my attention now. You may take the ropes off him, if you please."

It was a gently said, but there was little doubt to be had that the abbess was giving an order. Not even Lodo, who made belligerence his daily bread was willing to argue with her. Needing no additional prompting, Droddy untied Dachlan's lead from himself and the kit before freeing Dachlan's bound paws.

Dachlan was glad that the ropes were off at last. Standing in front of others while trussed up with nothing short of humiliating, and his cheeks were still burning as he rubbed life back into his numbed wrists. Still, he couldn't elude the feeling of being imprisoned, surrounded as he was by woodlanders on all sides and a locked gate behind him. Escape was not a luxury he'd be afforded.

His warden, however, was at least a beneficent one. She gave him a kindly smile and crouched down in front of him so she could meet his eyes, her old bones creaking in the process.

"Hello there, little kit. My name is Abbess Plenny. That's short for Plennigreen. What's your name?" asked the abbess.

Her voice was soft, her sentences simple, and her face serene, all to ensure that Dachlan felt welcome and unthreatened. Ordinarily such babying would have elicited a rather rude response from Dachlan, or at least a dismissive one, but the abbess seemed to be hedging her bets that Dachlan had just been through some manner of great ordeal. It was evident in his muddy clothes and the black ash streaks in his fur. Just this once he was willing to be talked down to for the sake of being comforted.

At first, Dachlan found it hard to meet the abbess' eyes, and so instead he stared everywhere else. She wore a habit of green and that covered her neck and the top of her head, with only her wrinkled face peering out from beneath the flowing hood. Unassuming sandals protected her feet, and she'd become so thin in her old age that it didn't look as though it would take much more than a slight push to send her toppling head over heels.

Why then did he feel so cowed in front of her? She wasn't the first aged mouse he'd met, and in fact he remembered that many elder woodlanders were prime targets for various tricks and pranks, as they were too long in the tooth to give chase and do much more than shout.

It was not until Dachlan's eyes at last traveled up the paw the abbess extended to him, up to the abbess' face. For a moment he looked past the half-moon spectacles perched on her muzzle and into her eyes, and suddenly he knew why he felt as he did.

_Warrior eyes!_ thought Dachlan. _She's got a warrior's eyes!_

Certainly they were kind, wise eyes, but they were also unwavering and alert, strong even in the face of advancing age and ceding no ground to the years. They were the eyes of a guardian and a protector, somebeast who'd looked upon a foe without backing down an inch. When death finally came to this mouse's bedroom, he would knock first and then tiptoe in under the watchful gaze of the abbess' spirit.

Dachlan looked away and let out an intimidated whine, chewing on his lower lip. His parents had warned him about attracting attention from woodlanders, and now he was doing just that, and with a woodlander who'd clearly taken on her fair share of tribulations for the sake of her abbey. What would his parents say if they knew that he'd gotten himself caught under the eyes of the abbess?

Thinking that Dachlan was being rude, Droddy gave him a firm nudge from behind. "Come on now. Shake paws with the abbess and tell her your name. Don't be rude, fox."

Abbess Plennigreen had dealt with shy dibbuns before, and she assumed that this fox kit was having a similar problem.

"Whenever you're ready, my son," she said. "You're safe here."

More from the nudging than from the assurance, Dachlan extended his small paw and took hold of the abbess', mumbling almost inaudibly, "M'name's Dachlan…"

Abbess Plennigreen had to struggle to hear him speak, leaning in close. "Dachlan? That's a nice name," she said. Her paw tightened around his, holding it with fingers stronger than Dachlan would expect a mouse of her age to have.

He tried to squirm his paw out of hers, but a firm shake of her head followed by a reassuring smile told him not to. Dachlan did as she wished and stopped trying to free his paw. Where did he think he was about to go anyhow?

"Now, just follow me to my rectory and we'll get you all nice and settled then."

Dachlan had little choice whether he wanted to follow the abbess or not, as he was more or less dragged behind her as she walked towards the abbey proper. Certainly Dachlan could have struggled and dug his heels into the soft abbey grass, but he had little doubt that Abbess Plennigreen would have doggedly hauled him along regardless. She'd loosened her grasp to a more comforting one now; it would do no good to give her a reason to tighten it again.

The walk towards the abbey building gave Dachlan ample time to gawk at the miniature Elysium the mice of Redwall had built and maintained. Woodlanders were everywhere, whether working or relaxing, and at once Dachlan could see beasts tending to the trees and crops while others lounged about in the shade. Young beasts ran from tree to tree stuffing their faces with windfallen fruits, and Elderly beasts lounged in the shade, half-watching the young ones while either chatting amongst each other or outright dozing off.

But once the abbess dragged Dachlan into the light all activity and lounging ceased and turned instead to staring. Dachlan withered under so many eyes that had never seen a vermin of any variety within the walls of the abbey before, and indeed some who had yet to ever see a vermin at all outside of drawings. As he looked back at them, he could see a variety of emotions painted across their faces: curiosity, anger, fears, disgust. They felt like strong and intimidating reactions over nothing more than a young fox, and Dachlan had trouble understanding them.

Murmuring began almost immediately. Vermin hadn't set foot in the abbey for a great many years, and every last story that involved them doing so resulted in either tragedy or disaster for the Redwallers. None of the Redwallers watching Dachlan had any desire to become part of such a story themselves.

Once Dachlan entered the abbey, he was hidden from the curious eyes, something that he was very grateful for indeed. The abbey's main building was just as sturdy as the walls that encircled it, and he had little doubt that the woodlanders would be able to lock the entire place up so tight that an ant wouldn't be able to find a crack to squeeze through.

The procession, on the way to the rectory, passed by a great tapestry hanging in the great hall, Dachlan's eye drawn to the mouse who dominated the image. He couldn't help but stare, forming an instant opinion of the mouse as he took in the tapestry. The smirk, to him, seemed haughty, his posture elitist, and the manner in which he held his sword seemed to be almost one of callous disregard for the thwarted beasts he used it on. And all those other vermin fleeing or laying slain behind him! This mouse was a warrior, and a hostile one at that; at least towards vermin anyhow.

Why did this mouse have a tapestry in the abbey anyhow? Something about it seemed familiar, as though he'd heard a story or two about this mouse, but Dachlan couldn't put his paw on it. He couldn't understand the purpose of the tapestry, but he did understand that if he should ever meet this warrior, that he was not someone Dachlan would be keen to trust.

Dachlan realized that Abbess Plennigreen stopped tugging him along, and that he'd been permitted to cause the small group to grind to a halt in front of the tapestry. For some reason, he was being allowed to stare at the tapestry as long as he wanted in silence, and she only spoke once he looked up at her. She seemed pleased at his contemplation of the tapestry, though Dachlan was in no mood to speak and ask for what reason.

However, the abbess took care of that for him, want it or not. "Do you like our tapestry? That mouse's name is Martin the Warrior. He's the patron of our abbey."

Abbess Plennigreen kept up a calm and almost deliberately prattling tone, one that she found useful for teaching the newly arrived dibbuns some small lessons without overwhelming them with the grand history of the abbey.

"Doesn't he look peaceful? You'll get to learn all about him while you're here."

Peaceful?! Most certainly not! Nobeast with a weapon like that and with their footpaws on top of that many vanquished beasts could possibly be peaceful, could he? This Martin looked more like some manner of warlord, and his father made it quite clear to him that there wasn't a single decent beast who'd take that title.

Perhaps before the death of his parents, Dachlan would have been more interested in arguing with the abbess about the point, in acting juvenile, snippy, or defiant, but witnessing the gruesome slaughter of everyone he knew had shut his lips tight. He had no fire in him to argue or to resist being led about by the nose.

And so all it took was a gentle tug from the abbess' paw, and the brief rest was at an end. From there it was a short walk through the hall, up some stairs, and down another hall to the abbess' rectory. It was a small office adjoining a bedroom; austere and official looking, filled with bookshelves upon which sat a variety of thick tomes, no doubt the record-keeping books required to keep the abbey functioning on a day to day basis. Dachlan felt very short in this room, and something about it gave the impression that it was the sort of place that cubs were expected to stand in absolute calm and quiet when they were brought in.

Abbess Plennigreen took her place behind the desk, letting herself down into the chair behind with the sigh of an aged beast. Clasping her paws in front of her, she prepared to begin the proceedings.

"Perhaps, so I may fully understand the situation, you might explain what happened, my shrew friends."

Farla did most of the explaining, her sympathies being best suited for the task, though Lodo would sometimes interject. Droddy folded his arms and remained silent, content to let the others carry on until he needed to step in and rapidly defuse a blossoming argument before it could get out of paw and become something embarrassing.

Paws clasped in front of her, the abbess waited for the story to conclude, though often her gaze would flick downwards to Dachlan, whose eyes in turn were more focused on his footpaws than anything else. They watched how his footpaws wriggled with nervous impatience as he waited for Abbess Plennigreen to decide his fate.

He had little desire to live amongst woodlanders. Even though he hadn't seen a single hare so far in Redwall, he was reluctant to trust anybeast who counted the hares amongst their own. But although he would likely have fled he would have liked to flee the first chance that was afforded to him, Dachlan knew that he hated the idea of starving to death alone in the woods even more so than being under the watchful eyes of the woodlanders.

The story came to a close, and the abbess leaned a bit forwards in her chair to regard Dachlan himself, looking down upon him from her position behind the desk. She asked him, "Dachlan, do you understand what's happening? Do you understand that, as you are now an orphan, that Redwall will be pleased to care for you and count you amongst our own?"

Shocked by the sudden reprieve, Dachlan's head snapped upwards. After the story he'd expected more arguing, debate, and questioning from everybeast present, but most especially from that warrior-eyed abbess. Indeed, Dachlan's mouth wasn't the only one that hung agape. The shrews and the young brother in attendance were all likewise surprised by what seemed a very bold snap decision. How could the abbess invite a vermin to live inside Redwall so quickly when such a thing was unheard of in hundreds of years of the abbey's history, save for a single, nearly disastrous moment?

"Brother Samnel, kindly fetch Mother Cinnarae, so that we might get our new son settled in," said the abbess.

At first she wasn't heard, as Samnel was still attempting to wrap his mind around the prospect that a vermin cub would now be one of the many young ones in the abbey's care.

"Brother Samnel?" repeated Abbess Plennigreen, a little of a firm edge to her voice this time, getting the younger mouse's attention at last. "Mother Cinnarae, if you please?"

"Yes, abbess!" sputtered Brother Samnel, tripping over his own sandals as he sprang for the door out of the study, only to turn and take one more look at the strange scene as he prevented himself from chipping a tooth on the doorknob, which he hung onto and turned all at the same time. He shouted a final, "Yes abbess!" as he finally made his way out of the room.

The abbess tsk-tsked fondly as Samnel left, addressing nobeast in particular. "Oh, Samnel! He's really quite a good mouse, even if he is a wee bit high strung."

"Anyhow," continued the abbess. "If you're to be one of us, Dachlan, you're going to have to learn to live like us, though that should not be terribly difficult for you if you're a decent beast."

Abbess Plennigreen smiled down at the fox kit, who was just barely chin-level with the edge of the desk. "I think you already are though, aren't you?"

Dumbly, Dachlan nodded his head. What else could he do? Certainly he couldn't tell the abbess that he got into trouble with woodlanders before, that the Long Patrol once tried to burn him to a crip, or that the last thing he did before his life changed forever was that he stole a bottle of very pricey damson wine. No, there would be many secrets from those he now dwelt with; from the time he and some other cubs threw rocks through an angry customer's window on behalf of their parents, to the time he set a bale of hay on fire just to see what it looked like.

"Good," said Abbess Plennigreen. "I know that you'll be very happy here, Dachlan. My three shrew friends, I cannot thank you enough for this good deed that you have done, but I think it only fair that the abbey reward you in the best way that it can. If you care to go to the kitchens, we'll be happy to feed you and give you provisions for your journey home tomorrow. I insist that you at least spend the night with us, if you're able."

"Right kindly of you, marm!"

"We'd love to!"

"Yes, please!"

And with that the shrews were gone, trotting to the kitchens for some of the abbey's famous fare, and leaving Dachlan and Abbess Plennigreen alone.

Dachlan's eyes went back to his footpaws, staring at them as silence spread between the abbess and himself. It bothered him, and he felt as though he were being scrutinized, despite the fact that the abbess wasn't even looking at him. Instead she was standing at a bookshelf and poring over the titled etched into the spines. At last she pulled one down and laid it upon the desk, opening it and seeking out a specific page.

"Dachlan, would you come to me, please?"

At first, Dachlan considered shaking his head and staying where he was, but the abbess clearly expected him to obey, and if he was to live under her watchful eye, he may as well avoid antagonizing her from the start. He didn't know that she wouldn't bear a grudge. He padded to her side only to be grabbed under the arms and hoisted up onto her lap, squirming in the air at the rather unexpected contact, cheeks flushing red under his fur. Were Dachlan's life still in the same order as before his own personal catastrophe, he would have fussed and swore at the indignity of being lifted like a babe, already considering himself too old to ride upon his father's shoulders. But now all that he could muster the willpower to do was to shift and refuse to settle in, near constant movement with a rigid spine attempting to convey his displeasure.

The meager display did little to ruffle the abbess, and she indicated the book that she opened on the desk. Regardless of how little he liked being held on somebeast's lap, Dachlan couldn't help but take interest in the book, the colors of a drawing on one of the pages catching his eye, and the illuminated manuscript below drawing him in with tantalizing flashes of gold and red. His parents couldn't read, much less afford books, and neither could Dachlan, but he could certainly understand when detail was given to something valuable or important, and between the tapestry and this book, this Martin mouse must have been somebeast held in the very highest regard.

"You may turn the pages, just as long as you are careful with them," said Abbess Plennigreen, watching the small paws wander over the pages from over Dachlan's shoulder.

Settling in, Dachlan found another beautiful drawing on the next page, also depicting Martin, this time tending to an ill beast. Another turn, and it was of Martin tending the fields peaceably; then one of Martin defending young, helpless beasts from shadowy vermin invaders; and then yet another of Martin kneeling in prayer.

Tearing his eyes away from the pictures, Dachlan looked up at the abbess, who gave an answer to his silent question, "This is a book a beast made a long time ago to help those who live in our abbey learn Martin's and the mice of his time's teachings. For years and years beasts of Redwall have been using Martin's lessons to live good and peaceful lives. If you take these lessons to heart, I'm certain that you'll be happy here."

This was an ethos that Dachlan didn't quite understand what to make of. A healthy handful of the lessons seemed to revolve around getting involved in the problems of others, something that very much went against the common sense fox logic that Dachlan was reared on.

"Care for yourself and your kin first" was their vulpine mantra, and it was already far kinder than many of the ones other, less decent foxes would live by.

Standing in front of the swords of bloodthirsty beasts for the sake of those who may only care for him because of pure desperation for help didn't sit well with Dachlan. He could still remember the more malignant stares that a few of the beasts in the open grounds gave him, as well as the attitude of Lodo the shrew. Why should Dachlan put his life in danger for beasts like that? Would beasts like that remember to be thankful to him in the months and years after the danger passed?

The door to the rectory opened again, and Brother Samnel entered, but not alone. Behind him… a badger! An enormous white and black beast of murderous strength and driven by a Bloodwrath-filled loathing for everything vermin!

Confusion reigned as Dachlan screamed, not a cubbish outcry, but a genuine scream of unmistakable terror. He fell off the abbess' lap in an effort to run away, spraining his ankle in the process by knocking against the desk during the fall. He scrambled backwards, calling for help the whole time and managing to wedge himself into a corner between bookshelves.

A few back and forth glances and the abbess realized the cause of the problem, raising her voice to be heard above Dachlan's panic. "Mother Cinnarae, please leave now! Brother, Samnel, get Sister Marialla!"

Bewildered, badger and mouse stumbled backwards out of the room, the shrieking losing some of its volume the moment that Mother Cinnarae departed.

Sighing, the abbess made herself a mental reminder to apologize to the pair of beasts once this issue was resolved. She didn't much care for raising her voice, particularly when it came to giving orders. For the moment though, she had to tend to the young fox, who it seemed would require a great deal of patience in some areas. That he would show such genuine fear at merely being in the same room as a badger was unexpected, and a work-around for that was an absolute necessity. Hopefully the name of that work-around would be Marialla.

Old bones creaking, Abbess Plennigreen settled down onto her haunches and reached into the crevasse between the bookshelves, silently hoping that Dachlan was not so panicked that he would bite her. Fortunately, all he did was twitch, and then settle into shivering as her paw made contact with the kit's furred head. If nothing else, at the very least the screaming had stopped.

Putting on her most soothing voice, the abbess tried to coax Dachlan out of his hiding spot, "Come on out, Dachlan. Everything is alright. The badger is gone, but she would never have done anything to hurt you anyway."

It took a good five minutes of coaxing before the abbess was able to get Dachlan to come out into the open again, and even once she did, he clung to her habit with one paw in silence.

Not long after he was extricated from the nook, the door to the rectory opened once more, and Brother Samnel led another beast inside. This time though it was not a badger, but instead an otter; a female otter, chubby in her middle age with rosy cheeks just barely visible beneath her fur, and who bore with her an air that could instill the young beasts she cared for with the undeniable urge to run and bury their muzzles in her apron while calling her their mother.

Indeed as she came towards Dachlan, a similar desire came over him, and despite having gotten quite the scare, the only thing which kept him from seeking comfort from her was a natural distrust of woodlanders and a sort of pride that particularly obstinate cubs fell prey to. Marialla, being quite used to dealing with cubs of many backgrounds, was undeterred, though the presence of a vermin in Redwall puzzled her to no end. To her though, all cubs were cubs, and Dachlan's wide eyes indicated quite clearly that he needed some of the care that Marialla possessed in abundance.

With a gentle puff of breath she crouched down so she could be a little closer to eye level with Dachlan. "Well, hello there little one! My my, it's been ages upon ages since I've seen a fox! Are you here to raid our kitchen?"

Baffled as to why the otter would ask him such a thing, he shook his head, though at the mention of the kitchen his stomach rumbled. It was a considerable amount of time since his last meal, which itself was taken on a stomach many days empty.

"Oh no?" said Marialla. "In that case, I think that we should go conquer it together. What do you say?"

She held her paw out towards Dachlan, webbed fingers wiggling in warm invitation, though the young fox stared at it for a moment before allowing his eyes to drift upwards towards Abbess Plennigreen's face, asking for permission in silence. A nod from the abbess, her face radiating calming reassurance, and Dachlan took hold of Marialla's paw, only to be swept up into her arms as if he were a little kit, or at least a littler kit than he saw himself as.

"The kitchens it is! But first a good scrubbing to shake all the dust from the road off."

Dachlan let out a squall of dismay as he realized that he wasn't going to be fed without being soaked down to his skin, the beginning of a great deal more washing than had been mandated by his parents. When he was still in the care of his parents, they'd only made him wash when he'd been truly filthy; after all, wasting water on bathing instead of drinking it was unheard of in a traveling group of vermin, and was only to be done when there was a river to camp next to.

As Marialla carried him out of the rectory, Dachlan squirmed and tried to push away from the tightening grip the motherly otter had on him. Just before Dachlan could start protesting with his voice in addition to his paws, likely starting up the most talking he'd done all day, Marialla said something that made Dachlan freeze.

"I'll tell you what, my little kit. If you're good for me and don't fuss, I'll show you the boat that I made with my own two paws. Have you ever seen a boat?"

Having spent all his short life away from the coasts, and for that matter away from rivers as much as possible to avoid groups of river faring shrews, Dachlan shook his head. Not knowing that Marialla whittled small, floating boats for dibbuns to distract themselves with in the bath, Dachlan couldn't help but wonder at exactly where her boat would be launched from. The pond he'd passed by on the way inside certainly didn't have any that he could see, and surely, though the abbey was large, it wasn't large enough to hold anything like a searat galley. Those were the only boats he knew anything about, and that was from stories his parents told him. His curiosity kept him quiet, and Marialla hauled him down the corridors far more easily, the abbess hearing her voice fading into the distance.

"I think that your'e going to like my boat, especially because I want you to be the captain. But a good captain doesn't make a fuss and startle the crew when he's around water, does he, skipper?"

A serene smile spread over the abbess' muzzle as she plucked a few ledgers from her bookshelf, beginning to make the proper notations so that the new guest could be properly accounted for as the seasons rolled on. It was always important to know precisely who was and was not a permanent resident of the abbey. After all, the history of the abbey would be nothing worth speaking of if it weren't for the beasts within it. She tried not to think about the other vermin name that might very well be hidden in the books from many seasons past… did the recordkeeping go back that far? The abbess didn't have much time to dwell on the abbey's record keeping, as Mother Cinnarae's snout poked around the corner of the door.

"He's gone. You can come in now," called Abbess Plennigreen. "I'm sorry for shouting earlier, but for whatever reason the fox did seem genuinely scared half to death."

Mother Cinnarae lollopped into the rectory and gave a snort and a chuckle, "No worries, abbess. I've got quite the set of lungs myself, and I'm not much afraid to use them. You've heard me dressing down some of our more unruly members before."

Mother Cinnarae's voice grew graver as she got to the subject that necessitated her return. "But I really do have to ask: what's that fox doing here anyhow, and what disturbed him so about me?"

The abbess returned to her desk, placing her Sparra feather quill atop the stack of ledgers, then clasped her paws together in a rather premeditated pose of authority. "He was alone and starving, and apparently his parents are dead. Clearly one so young requires the care our abbey can give. As for the… display he put on, I think that, for whatever reason, he's simply terrified of badgers."

Mother Cinnarae quirked an eyebrow, repeating, "Terrified of badgers? For what possible reason? Hmph, I think that we badgers are quite the decent beasts!"

Attempting to soothe the badger's ruffled feathers, the abbess replied, "Amongst the best, I'm sure. But for whatever reason, that's the case."

"Abbess, if you don't mind me saying, I think that we should find another home for the fox. As soon as possible."

"Why do you say that? Certainly you're not so upset by his response as to not want him here? He'll grow used to you in time."

"No, it's not that. It's only that he's vermin, and a fox no less! In all the stories I've heard of vermin coming to Redwall, they've always ended in death and tragedy. Why should this one be any different?"

"He's only a cub," stated the abbess with a frown.

"But he won't be forever. He's going to grow into a sneaky, conniving, vicious male fox someday!" said Mother Cinnarae, unknowingly a good deal more firmly than she'd intended.

"Foxes often do…" replied Abbess Plennigreen. "But it's unjust to determine his future for him before the time even comes to pass. The very possibility that he might grow up to be a decent beast is well worth the risk."

"Like Veil did? You remember that story, don't you?" with stern determination Mother Cinnarae placed her paws on her hips. "Abbess Bryony had the highest of hopes for him and all she was left with in the end were regrets for ever taking him in to begin with."

A sad sigh escaped the abbess' lips, her eyes dropping down away from the badger across from her for the first time. "I think there were plenty of other regrets concerning Veil. Even all these years later."

Misunderstanding the abbess' point, Mother Cinnarae barreled onwards with her own. "Indeed! He's a black mark on the abbey to this very day."

"Sometimes I wonder about him. As often as his name pops up when the subject of vermin arises, I have to wonder if he and Martin have ever bumped into each other while walking the abbey halls." The abbess followed this thought up with a soft tsk and a shake of her head.

A single huff of mirthless laughter leapt past Mother Cinnarae's lips. "You'll have to excuse me, abbess, but that's nonsense. Even his body isn't within the abbey, and his grave has been lost since before either of us were born. Frankly, I'd say his banishment was so complete that he couldn't set foot in here even in death."

"Forever an outcast," Abbess Plennigreen murmured. "I can't imagine it. I truly hope we don't have a repeat of that with Dachlan."

"To the matter at paw, do you truly think it wise to create another Veil for our generation?"

"Do you truly think that he'll do something as wicked as Veil?" asked the abbess before she lifted her eyes back to the badger, changing tacks rather abruptly. "Do you remember how little faith Bella of Brockhall had in even a tiny ferretbabe? Are you intent on filling her shoes and naming someone so young as evil?"

Ever stern, Mother Cinnarae nodded with slow determination. "Bella was correct about Veil, and unfortunately, in this case too, I think that it's prudent."

"I must encourage you to give Dachlan a chance all the same. There's nothing in him that says he must turn out the same way that Veil did."

"I don't like it. I just don't like it. How many decent beasts do you know who fear badgers?"

Finally, Abbess Plennigreen decided to end the argument with a simple truth, one that was indisputable. She squared her aged shoulders and sat up as straight as she could in her chair, looking straight down her muzzle at Mother Cinnarae. "Caring for an orphaned dibbun is the right thing to do."

The badgermum bit her lip. Her own personal vows ensured that she had no desire to argue such a point. Eventually, she found her voice. "That's true, of course. But we should keep our eyes on him all the same."

The abbess nodded in assent. "That's more than fair. I only pray that Dachlan grows up to be a good vermin."

Mother Cinnarae couldn't help but let out a scoff. "I'll pray for the same. And I'll pray for us all as well in case he doesn't."


	2. Chapter 2: Be Quiet

Merrithorn had been standing outside the heavy oak door separating him from Lord Olbrieg for over a half an hour. Every now and then he would pace back and forth, move as though to knock, and then retreat in haste and give serious consideration to simply going back down to the mess hall and forgetting all about the matter he needed to speak to the badger lord about.

A couple of younger recruits passed by for the second time, ceasing their chatter to cast a confused pair of glances Merrithorn's way. They were so curious about why he'd been standing outside the badger lord's door for so long that they only threw up hurried salutes mere inches away from their superior, which were answered with an almost sheepish salute in return. The pair soon forgot Merrithorn as they headed back to the barracks, cheerful voices echoing down the hall.

That tore it. Looking shamefaced in front of the recruits was all Merrithorn needed to realize that he was acting ridiculous, and needed to simply summon up the courage to knock on the door. For heaven's sake though! Fighting hordes of searats was less nerve wracking than this!

Knuckles met wood three times, and the booming voice of Lord Olbrieg sounded out from the other side of the heavy, oaken door, "Who's there?"

The hare took a deep breath, calling back to him and hoping that he didn't sound as nervous as he felt, "Sergeant Merrithorn, sah! I wanted to talk with you about somethin' important."

"Come on in then, sergeant."

Sergeant Merrithorn took a deep breath, then pressed down on the latch, opening the door and stepping into the room which served both as the badger lord's forge and his lodgings. The room was hot, smelling of molten metal and burning wood, as was normal, but to Merrithorn the climate was outright stifling. The sergeant passed a paw over his brow and found that there was already a slight dampness to the fur there.

At the very least he had the presence of mind snap to attention and salute once Lord Olbrieg noticed him, dropping the posture only once the badger grunted and threw up a brief paw-to-brow in return. That was all Merrithorn needed to know that he could relax, or at least make the attempt. Niceties ended, there was no further way to prolong having the conversation that Merrithorn practically burned to have, and yet at the same time feared having.

Lord Olbrieg seemed to know that Merrithorn was under some strain, and issued an impatient grumble of, "Well, sergeant?" to goad him onwards.

"Sah, I needed to talk with you about that group of foxes we killed a couple days ago," began Merrithorn.

"You mean the band of robbers foxes who were stopped before they could start their mischief in Mossflower?" corrected Lord Olbrieg with a quirked eyebrow, though he failed to look up from his forging.

"Erm, yes sah. I suppose so, if you say so, wot."

Merrithorn's nose twitched and his ears drooped. The correction confirmed his belief that this would be every bit as painful a conversation as he feared. Trying to tell a badger lord he was wrong was seldom successful, yet here he was about to argue that exact point. Madness!

"I would say that we were very successful in that patrol. Stumbling across a band that large about to make Mossflower their hunting ground, then bringing them their just desserts carries with it its own special pleasure," said Olbrieg, slamming the hammer down on the scrap of white-hot metal that was, with every strike, turning into a new sword.

Stopping his work, Lord Olbrieg looked up at last. "Isn't that right, sergeant?"

Merrithorn thought he'd kicked the habit of fumbling his paws in awkward, tumbling strokes over each other a long time ago, and yet here he was, wringing them like a leveret who'd just been caught with his arm shoulder-deep in the candy jar.

"It does, sah," said Merrithorn while staring at his own footpaws, unable to meet his commander's eyes. "Or rather, it does when it actually happens, wot."

"Care to explain what you're saying?"

"Well sah, it's just this sah. Mightn't things at times be less wonderful than they appear, sah?"

Sergeant Merrithorn, say what you mean!" ordered Lord Olbrieg, the sharp edge of command entering his voice.

"All that I'm sayin' sah is that… that maybe those foxes weren't quite the villains we thought they were?" suggested Merrithorn, his eyes finally rising to cast a hopeful glance towards the badger lord.

What they met were a pair of narrow, angry slits perched above a muzzle wrinkled in disgust. There was a distinct chill to Lord Olbrieg's voice as he spoke, "I'm afraid that I don't understand why you'd think something so ridiculous. Large group of vermin all traveling together while ready to fight; what else could it have been?"

For all his planning as to what he was going to say in defense of his theory, Merrithorn found his head empty now that the moment was upon him, and all he could muster was a meager, "They, well… they didn't much look it… wot wot?"

Pathetic. How could Merrithorn stare down the shaft of a searat's boathook and be able to grin at its owner, but confronting someone who was supposed to be the greatest ally to any woodlander feel so insurmountable that he lost his tongue?

"I fail to see how what they looked like changes what they were. Besides, they looked like any other band of lawless vermin to me."

By some miracle, a piece of what Merrithorn planned to say floated out of the depths of his mind. "It's only that they weren't armed much like bandits, sah. Not many real weapons 'tween the lot of 'em. Plenty of, er, improvised stuff and all that, wot."

The first article of evidence was met with little more than a shrug from Lord Olbrieg, though he at least quenched the blade he was working on so that he could give Merrithorn his full attention. "Again, I fail to see how that matters. Villains can menace the meek and unarmed perfectly well with any weapons they had to scrounge up. I once found the body of a mouse who'd been stabbed to death with his own toasting fork during a scuffle with a vermin raider."

"But that's not all, sah!" babbled Merrithorn. Now that he'd started talking, the dam to his memory burst, overflowing into a muddled and poorly spoken mess. "They couldn't seem to do a bally lick of skilled fightin'! We tore 'em to shreds afore we even know the battle was goin' our way! An' then when I looked in one of their carts, it was mostly full of herbs an' such! Like they'd been bloomin' foragin'!"

"I really don't see how this is relevant, sergeant. Thieves steal more than just coin, after all," said Olbrieg, practically repeating himself by now and keeping that same cold tone, the perfect, maddening counterpoint to Merrithorn's frantic deluge. "Now if there's nothing else, I'll let you be on your way."

Sergeant Merrithorn's ears fell in shock. Was he really to be dismissed out of paw like this and shunted aside? After so long as a loyal member of the Long Patrol, to be simply disregarded by his commander felt like a slap in the face. He and Lord Olbrieg were never close, or even spoke regularly, but one would think that service would mean _something_! Such a thing wasn't something that he could ever recall happening during the reign of Lord Olbrieg's predecessor. Even though he was only a leveret at the time, Merrithorn couldn't remember any of the fighters of the Long Patrol ever complaining about this sort of thing. Even the early years with Lord Olbrieg in command were devoid of these kinds of dissatisfactions. Yet over the past few years, there'd come a growing number of beasts, older beasts mostly, who were discontent with the distance that the new regime was enforcing. Of course, the younger set still revered Olbrieg for the most part, whether it was from the standard reverence for badger lords that military hares seemed to be born with, or whether their teachers drubbed it into their heads.

Being on the receiving end though was overwhelming, and Merrithorn found himself blurting out before he had time to think better of it, "There were bloomin' cubs an' a pregnant vixen amongst the goddamned dead for pity's sake!"

Realizing what he'd said, and furthermore how he'd said it, Merrithorn clapped a paw across his muzzle. But it was too late. What was said was said, and Olbrieg, for the first time, seemed willing to take Merrithorn's complaints seriously. But the reason for this was not because of the revelation itself, but rather because he knew that if Merrithorn could crack in front of him, he could just as easily crack in front of green recruits.

It would be terrible for morale.

Lord Olbrieg pulled off his heavy apron and set it down before leaning in and looking Merrithorn in the eye, having to stoop considerably to bring his glowering visage down to the hare's level.

"Sergeant, I want you to put these bothersome thoughts out of your head!" he growled.

"But sah!"

Olbrieg cut him off with rough chop of a gesture. "No buts! Listen close. Do you remember your marching songs? Do you remember all the songs that even woodlanders outside the Long Patrol know about killing vermin?"

Sergeant Merrithorn nodded slowly. Of course he could remember. He'd called for plenty of those marching songs to be sung himself, leading the rest of the recruits under his wing with his own voice. But the songs… Merrithorn always thought that they were about killing corsairs and horde leaders. He stood gape-mouthed, opening and closing his muzzle as he tried to speak, already anticipating the badger lord's next point, one that he knew he wouldn't like.

"Those songs meant something. They mean that those like us, the beasts who have the ability to actually defend themselves, have a responsibility to rid Mossflower and our coasts of vermin. All vermin. Let them make their homes in the Northlands, the harsh lands they so richly deserve, if they want to keep their lives." Olbrieg's voice had a harshness to it, an edge that was made sharp by the whetstones of reality and experience. Merrithorn suddenly longed for the cold and dispassionate tone to return.

It took Merrithorn some time to find his voice and speak again. "But… all of them, sah?"

"All of them!" proclaimed Lord Olbrieg, rearing up to his full height. "How many good vermin do you know of? How many stories of decent vermin who've come to the aid of their fellow beasts have you heard? Are the scum who crawl from the sea onto our shores even slightly concerned with the damage they do or the grief they cause? Just because they're young or aged or, yes, even bearing a little vermin doesn't mean that they're not all equally wicked as a fit raider bearing down on you with an axe! Remember that before one of them takes advantage of your pity and kills you!"

Merrithorn's eyes darted away from the badger lord's, pointing everywhere else in a frenzied attempt to fight the magnetism of the other beast's stare. At the same time he ground a small gash into his lower lip as he thought. Lord Olbrieg was correct. He couldn't call to mind a single vermin he'd ever encountered who was even approaching decent, and he also knew that any member of the Long Patrol was unlikely to receive much in the way of mercy. In fact, captured hares were lucky if they were killed outright rather than tortured to death. That was the extent of what a prisoner of war had to hope for when his warden was a vermin.

"I know you understand the point I'm trying to make, Sergeant Merrithorn. Think of the generations of vermin attacks where entire armies were defeated, but released, just for a new vermin horde to reappear later. We can only attain peace by making it clear that they will die if they so much as poke their muzzles into Mossflower." said the badger, his voice surprisingly calm and reassuring after displaying such fervor before.

Oh yes. Merrithorn understood, he just wasn't sure he condoned it. Certainly vermin were a problem, but did all of them really deserve death without even a trial?

As if anticipating Merrithorn's doubts, Lord Olbrieg continued. "I'd also like to remind you that these vermin didn't surrender. They fought like the warlike beasts they were, and believe me, they would have killed every last one of us were they able to."

Merrithorn looked up and met his badger lord's eyes at last, then nodded. It made sense. If they were really innocents rather than robber foxes, they would have done what any good woodlander would have done and surrendered so they could explain themselves, right? They wouldn't have fought tooth and claw down to the last beast standing. Innocent beasts knew that the Long Patrol wouldn't harm them. Yet even with this rationalization, Sergeant Merrithorn felt a lump in the pit of his stomach.

The victory days ago had none of the satisfaction that bringing justice to a ship of searats had, and the order to burn the caravan gave it a distinctly dirty and clandestine feel. Sergeant Merrithorn knew that some of the recruits felt the same way. At the time, he thought that hushing them up about the whole affair was the best course. It spared others from worrying about things they couldn't change, and would hopefully allow the doubts to fade from the minds of those who had them. That quieting, along with the many reminders that the only good vermin was a dead one, had taken care of the majority, but as always, there were a few troublesome ones…

Lord Olbrieg waited for his lesson to sink in, then resumed speaking, again talking like the commander of beasts he was. "Can you imagine the damage to morale this could do if you let your loose lips spread these ridiculous notions? Young, impressionable recruits will die because of it. They'll start wondering if the vermin they're fighting are truly wicked or not. And while they're standing there wondering, the scum will cleave them in twain!"

"Well, sah… what's there to do about the recruits who are still feelin' queasy about the whole affair?" asked Merrithorn, at last abandoning his argument. His protests were firmly quashed by his commander, and now he was asking for advice on how to do the same to the doubts of those he commanded. Passing it down the chain. He shoved away the part of his mind that wanted to continue to argue, forcing his conscious aside to make way for practicality.

Merrithorn's shoulders slumped in defeat, too exhausted by the whole mess to keep anything resembling a proud military bearing. If Olbrieg noticed, he let it pass.

"Remind your recruits of what monsters vermin are," said the badger lord simply. "Tell them, or let them hear, stories of the things experienced campaigners have seen vermin do. Remind them of battles long passed, and most importantly, remind them of the oath they took when they joined the Long Patrol."

Knowing he wouldn't much care for the answer to his next question, Merrithorn asked with apprehensive hesitation, "And… supposin' that doesn't work, wot?"

Lord Olbrieg lifted his chin, staring off into the distance, as though his eyes were capable of boring straight through the stone wall of the mountain. "Then remind them that there are penalties for sowing dissent, and that they should keep their silly worries to themselves. And if they should still persist with their disruptions, then I expect you to punish them for it, sergeant. Remember your duties."

Merrithorn nodded, numb, and not saying a word, digesting everything that'd happened. It felt like the world had changed a great deal since he stepped into the forge, though he couldn't have been speaking with the badger lord for more than half an hour. Silence spread between the pair of beasts, with Merrithorn staying still save for an occasional shuffle, and Olbrieg peering down at the hare, as if probing him for any kind of weakness that might indicate that the sergeant was unwilling to carry out the orders he was given.

At last, Olbeig grunted a single word, "Dismissed!"

Popping fully to attention, Sergeant Merrithorn saluted as stiffly as he'd been trained to, displaying all the respect that a badger lord was to be afforded.

"Yes, sah!"

The chink in Merrithorn's typically upbeat demeanor was welded back together the second that he left the badger lord's forge. All worry and weakness was effaced, all concern partitioned into its own little quarantine zone in Merrithorn's mind. No one save for Lord Olbrieg and himself would ever know of his concerns, and he would do his best to ensure the concerns of the recruits on the same subject were either assuaged or suppressed accordingly.

_Lord Olbrieg was right, of course,_ thought Merrithorn. _Quite right! Badger lords usually were, weren't they?_

Vermin would exploit any weakness they could find, including compassion, and there was no reason to even consider that there would be exceptions or that warlords and hordes weren't the norm. Vermin warlords were the breakfast, lunch, and dinner of Mossflower for so many centuries of strife. After all, wasn't that the very reason the Long Patrol existed? Protecting Mossflower and the good woodlanders who dwelt in it from vermin was what they lived for!

With purpose renewed and doubt squashed down into a cowering wreck in the corner, Merrithorn lifted his chin high and practically marched towards the mess hall to address the young Long Patrollers under his command.


	3. Chapter 3: Everybeast Has a Job to Do

"No! Absolutely not! Not in here!"

The friar of Redwall Abbey shook with rage as he attempted to meet eye to eye with the fox in front of him by standing on his toes. A foot or two away from being able to do just that, the mouse settled for glaring up the vermin's nostrils instead.

"C'mon now, Hollan. Ya kin't jes' push me outta 'ere wid a buncha woodpidgeon dumplin's half-cooked!" snarled Dachlan.

"I don't care how cooked they are!" screeched the smaller creature, waving a ladled that he considered ruined by having been used to stir meat gravy. "You've spoilt my best ladle and… and… and is that my favorite knife?"

In truth the ladle and the knife were part of a collection of many, and bore no greater worth than any of their companions, much less meriting the status of "best" or "favorite", but it was a quirk of Friar Hollan's that whenever anything in the kitchen was considered damaged or spoilt beyond repair that the particular object would all of a sudden become preferred above its mates. Naturally the position of the object was lost when something else was broken or mishandled.

Dachlan scratched at his jaw with impudent indifference as he cast his eyes towards the knife he'd used to cut and slice open the woodpidgeon he'd caught. It was bloody, slick with natural grease and viscera, and jammed into the cutting board by its point.

"I en't seein' anythin' wrong wid it."

"Oh yes! Because I'd certainly love to slice into a leek and mushroom pasty with a knife a _vermin _used to maul some poor bird!"

Dachlan's eyes became narrow slits. Dachlan wasn't the type to shy away from the term "vermin", and he considered it more a statement of identity than anything else. Yet Redwallers set some stock in it being a grievous insult, and some went far enough to try to avoid saying it in Dachlan's presence. If he wasn't being referred to by name, then commonly he was called out as "the fox". Once he'd heard "brushbottom" from a visiting Guosim shrew, and it was only thanks to the abbess' intervention that blows weren't exchanged. Yet here he was being called something as weak as "vermin" to his face, and it rankled him, not because of the word itself, but because it was meant to be a terrible insult.

The short, thin friar in front of him was no Guosim shrew. He wouldn't start a fistfight or fly into a murderous rage with a rapier, but Dachlan found it a genuine strain to avoid belting him, just to shut him up. When Friar Marbury was still alive, such an altercation in the kitchen was something Dachlan would never have worried would happen. Though violence would have been more satisfying, Dachlan attempted a futile explanation, "An I'm tellin' ya, I din't maul nothin'! I was jes' cleanin' it out so I could eat it! Friar Marb'ry din't care!"

Friar Hollan blanched at the very notion. "Eating birds is completely barbaric! Was fish not good enough for you? Why can you not make do with vegetables like a decent woodlander?"

"Cause I en't a woodlander, dammit!" Dachlan snapped.

"Isn't that the truth, vermin!" Hollan shot back.

Another statement of fact, but one that nettled Dachlan all the same. After over ten years of living in Redwall, it was a galling truth that some Redwallers still didn't consider the fox one of them, relegating him into the category of a permanent and often unwelcome intruder at best, and an ever-present danger at worst. The feeling of division between them was, at times, a mutual one.

And now was one of those times. Dachlan was furious that after ten years, someone would question his right to make use of the abbey kitchens, in particular since the arrangement was carried on for so very long before Brother Hollan the kitchen assistant became Friar Hollan. Rank be damned, the insults had started up, and Dachlan wasn't going to back down! The number of vermin who would brook an insult without retort were few, and Dachlan considered himself having been very good indeed for holding his tongue and refusing to bite back thus far. But the limit had been reached, and like most vermin, Dachlan gave better than he got, spitting poison in the friar's face with relish, the volume of his voice rising as he got more heated.

"Why yer nothin' more'n a puffed-up, soggy-bottomed, greasy pan-scrubber of a midget rat! An' what's more yer as appealin' as a frog's ar-"

"What in Martin's name is going on here?"

Abbess Plennigreen stood in the doorway to the kitchen in her nightdress and shawl, arms folded in front of her and giving the pair of shouting beasts a glare that could have made them both wither into nothingness where they stood were it any more disapproving. As he always did when the abbess was made to mete out discipline to him, Dachlan wondered how such a peaceful creature could, at times, wield her disdain with the force of a warhammer. As the shame washed over him, Dachlan turned his head with a sneer in Hollan's direction, teeth half bared as he fumed.

The pair of beasts clammed up, the timely interruption having clipped the tail end of Dachlan's insult, preventing him from swearing inside the abbey. In a place that considered "bottom" and "bloody" to be the apex of verbal filth, it was entirely possible that a more genuine swear may have sent the elderly and cubs within a mile radius into fainting spells and screaming fits.

"I would like to know what all this commotion is about," said the abbess, her tone troubling in just how even it was.

The clamour was immediate as the two beasts began to blabber again, this time at the abbess herself, each beast trying to speak above the other and claim to be a paragon of innocence while decrying his companion as the very reincarnation of Vulpuz himself. Friar Hollan attained considerable volume, though his body was held in a position of muted shock, paws outspread in a beckoning disbelief, while Dachlan favored wild paw gestures, indicating Hollan, the dumplings, and all of Redwall with motions that were almost violent. His vermin accent was in full force as he chewed through a veritable litany of complaints, starting with the denial of something that was previously allowed and ending with the grief he was being given just for cooking.

The two beasts jawed at the abbess nonstop, or so they would have if she hadn't lifted a paw towards them and barked out with supreme sternness, "Silence, please! The both of you!"

Both beasts stopped for the second time, Hollan's mouth clenched shut save for the buck tooth digging into his lower lip, while Dachlan stopped with his maw agape, ready and willing to blurt forth the next argument that came to mind. When he remembered to close it, he settled into a sneering snarl, both he and Friar Hollan occasionally glancing to the side to glare daggers at each other.

After casting her eyes between the two and noting the still-simmering hostility, the abbess said, "Now… I think that we all need to take a deep breath and calm down. The two of you are not only brothers within our abbey, but also fully-grown beasts. It's unacceptable for the pair of you to have a row like a pair of dibbuns fighting over a toy!"

Hollan had grown quite sullen, staring down at the floor with a furrowed brow, apparently shamed by the abbess chastisement, as any good abbeybeast or woodlander would be. Vermin as he was, Dachlan was less repentant, still just barely moving his lips as though he were trying to think of something to say that would absolve him of all guilt in the matter. In the end he was forced to just avert his eyes to the side and grunt out an acknowledgement of what the abbess was saying.

Not letting the pair of them get away with non-answers, the abbess coaxed them on. "Am I understood?"

Like a pair of scolded dibbuns, Hollan and Dachlan answered at the same time, "Yes, mother abbess."

Seemingly pleased by their contrition, the abbess asked, "Now, why don't we get this matter sorted? Friar Hollan, you may explain first."

Abbess Plennigreen's attempt to calm the beleaguered friar had only a dampening effect, as the fire that flared up when he found that a woodpidgeon was butchered and cooked inside his beloved kitchen was still very much alive. The anger that started the little shouting match was merely kept in check… for the time being.

"Well!" exhaled Friar Hollan. "I was just getting up a bit early so that I could start working on the feast for this afternoon after Friar Marbury's wake…" Hollan's eyes narrowed and drifted towards Dachlan before he added, "In his _honor_, not that some beasts here care about that. I do take my new job quite seriously, you understand! It's what I've wanted to do in the abbey all my life and this vermin is trying to ruin it on the very first day!"

Before Dachlan could say anything, the abbess said, "I see. And so you found the mess and were upset?"

"Yes, abbess! Not only was it a mess, but the idea of a poor bird being cut up to be eaten in _my_ kitchen is just… just… just sickening!"

"Yes, Friar Hollan, I do understand what you're saying." The abbess gestured to the fox, who was shuffling in place and alternating between clenching his fists and spreading his fingers wide, looking as though he couldn't decide whether he wanted to claw at the friar or belt him in the nose. "Now, Brother Dachlan, why don't you tell us your side of the story?"

"Gladly!" spat Dachlan. "So I was out huntin' last night, an' I was jes' goin' ta cook up the spoils when-"

An upraised paw from the abbess interrupted Dachlan. "Dachlan, slow down. Remember: talk like a Redwaller."

The fox gave a slow nod. His vermin accent was something that most of his teachers had tried to stamp out of him when he was a boy. Now that he was grown, Dachlan had managed to master it enough that he could hide it behind the careful and precise Redwall rhythm. Yet at times the old vermin jabber would slip out, an unpleasant reminder of how out of place he was, compounding with his ever-scruffy fur, a gaunt frame, and overly attentive and aware eyes. To woodlanders, the addition of that vulpine accent was enough to make him look more suspicious and wild than they were comfortable with.

Now he spoke slower, annunciating every syllable of every word as though he'd been born a woodlander. "As I was saying, all that I was doing was cooking up a meal from yesterday's catch, like I've been doing for years now, when 'is greasy likkle pan washer-" a severe look from the abbess squelched further attempts to insult the friar, and reminded him that he was letting his tongue slip back into vermin talk. "-this mouse felt the need to make a fuss over the ingredients!"

"Ingredients?! It's a dead bird! Next thing we know, you'll be trying to stuff a whole sparra into my oven!" blurted Friar Hollan.

Dachlan snapped back, his fist clenching as he reflected on just how eminently punchable Hollan was making himself. "You know I've never tried to snare a sparra!"

_Slappin' 'un in the leg with a shovel don't count,_ thought Dachlan. _Keep the likkle flyin' rats from pesterin' me._

The abbess stomped a footpaw on the floor, her sandal making a slap that got the attention of both beasts. "You two, please! This infighting is unacceptable! You two are both grow beasts, yet here you are acting like you're half your ages. Dachlan, you knew that there was going to be a lot of activity in the kitchen today, and you really should have been more considerate."

Friar Hollan's smug expression was plowed under when the abbess turned to him, not intending to let him go without imparting a lesson onto him as well. "And Friar Hollan, I'm shocked that you would react so poorly to this. I should expect our friar of all beasts to know that certain beasts have certain needs from the kitchen. So long as Dachlan doesn't bother anybeast and cleans up after himself, I see no reason why he can't prepare a meal here every so often."

"Now," concluded Abbess Plennigreen. "I don't want to hear of any other issues between you two again. It's been ten years since you two met as dibbuns, and the number of times I've had to address issues between the pair of you has been numerous. So… this time I insist that you two embrace and make up. Like good Redwallers should."

Both beasts looked first at the abbess with wide-open eyes, then at each other, disgust evident in twitching muzzles and curled lips. The punishment was fitting. If they were to resemble dibbuns while arguing, then they should resemble dibbuns while making amends. With sincere reluctance they wrapped their arms around each other, both of them taking as loose a grasp as possible, as though they were having to hug something cold and slimy.

"Vermin!" hissed Hollan into the fox's ear.

Dachlan responded by digging his claws into the friar's back just enough to be uncomfortable, albeit very uncomfortable. Neither of them wanted to be the one who started whining and incur the abbess' wrath once more, so the final barbs they directed at each other passed without more flared tempers.

Eager to be done with the whole affair, they released each other, coming quite close to pushing each other away in the process. At the very least Abbess Plennigreen seemed to think that their piety dance was good enough, and she nodded with a pleased smile.

"And now we can have peace in our abbey once more. By the by, Dachlan, on my way here, Brother Stilltree said that he was looking for you. If I were you, I wouldn't keep him waiting too long. You know how fussy beasts of our years can be sometimes."

The corners of the abbess' muzzle turned down slightly, though perhaps not because of the audible groan Dachlan let slip without thinking. "I understand he's not the easiest beast in the world to get along with, but please, if you do it for anybeast, do it for our dear, departed Friar Marbury."

Abbess Plennigreen didn't know the half of the difficulties Dachlan endured when dealing with Stilltree, but he'd be damned if he was going to complain about that horrid little nutbiter to her. It would only make things more difficult, especially on top of this ridiculous argument with Friar Hollan, and so Dachlan just nodded in submission to her request.

"I'll get to him right away," said Dachlan in sweet, complete surrender to the abbess' will. "Just let me get my dumplings out of here so Friar Hollan doesn't have to worry."

Hoping that perhaps Dachlan had matured enough to try to create peace on his own, the abbess gave him an affectionate squeeze to his shoulder and left, just as Friar Hollan had left for the larder moments ago. Looking over her shoulder, she saw Dachlan puttering around the kitchen, finishing ladling the meat into the dumplings before bundling them up. Had their eyes met, Dachlan would have seen that she didn't entirely trust him to keep the peace, but soon enough the fox was alone in the kitchen once more.

She was justified in her suspicions, as Dachlan dropped the puttering-around-the-kitchen act he was putting on and jammed the wrapped dumplings into his satchel, his head flicking back and forth to make sure that Abbess Plennigreen was indeed gone and that Friar Hollan was still occupied in the larder. He'd fix Hollan good and proper. Dachlan took up the bucket of bird bones and viscera, tiptoeing to the ajar door to the larder, then snuggled the bucket up next to it, nice and close. He'd let the friar's temper do the rest of the work for him. The fox looked over the bit of mischief he'd constructed, then slid a doorstop underneath one end of the bucket's base to make it easier to tip, giving a satisfied nod to his handiwork when he was done.

Dachlan made himself scarce, creeping away from the kitchen and slipping into a dark corner in the adjacent hall; there was something he quite wanted to hear. Ah! There it was! There was a clatter followed by a disgusting wet sloshing sound, followed by a dismayed wail from Friar Hollan at the mess he'd just made for himself.

Dachlan permitted himself a toothy grin, and nearly skipped out of the abbey, across the grounds, and through the main gate. If he did have to spend time with that miserable old squirrel, at the very least reveling in his revenge would make the toil a little less painful, like landing face-first in cake after tripping during a walk through Hell.

* * *

Dachlan was dead wrong.

He could already see that Stilltree was in one his moods again, the sort of bitter attitude that he took on whenever he realized that he was, in fact, aging to the point where there were many things that he could no longer do. Judging by the stooped posture that Stilltree was trying his hardest to hide, he'd managed to give his back a nasty wrenching, no doubt while attempting to haul something far above his ability. Again. The squirrel hated the reminder that an apprentice was now necessary to do a job that he'd done alone for years. Furthermore, out of all the beasts who could have been apprenticed to him, the one who'd fallen into his lap was a damn vermin!

Stilltree was one of the few beasts of the abbey who didn't actually live in it, instead living in a cottage outside the walls. It wasn't a terribly far walk to Stilltree's cottage, but Dachlan hadn't been in any particular rush to get there, no doubt contributing to the squirrel's sour mood. Dachlan loathed going there, and not just because of his hatred for Stilltree and the tasks that the squirrel made him do, but also because it meant he had to walk through the extension of the Redwall cemetery. No matter how well kept the grounds were, and how peaceful and, perhaps, even beautiful the graveyard was, walking through it still made the butterflies in Dachlan's stomach flutter. He could never admit it though; he'd sooner die than admit that he was no better than some queasy-bellied mole.

Stilltree leaned with aged heaviness on his oaken walking stick, scowling at Dachlan as the fox approached. "Took your sweet time, didn't you, fox? I suppose the mourners can just wait for the vermin to take his morning stroll."

"I was getting' somethin' ta eat!" snapped Dachlan, lapsing into his vermin accent once more. Strange though it was, Stilltree was one of the few beasts who didn't try to get Dachlan to speak more like a woodlander. Dachlan always assumed that it was because Stilltree didn't care for the idea of a fox trying to pass himself off as an honest woodlander.

"Well, don't just stand there looking dumb, fox! The grave is long since dug, so you know what's next," grunted Stilltree.

Dachlan's stomach turned at the thought. He'd dug Friar Marbury's grave the previous evening, though not in the extension beyond the walls. As Friar Marbury was a member of the order for a great many years, he was to be afforded one of the plots within the abbey walls. Redwall stood for so many years that the cemetery within the grounds would have long since run out of space had there not been the foresight to add an extension outside the walls. Though it was hoped that there would still be centuries left until the cemetery within the walls was filled, now a beast had to be a member of the order or otherwise distinguish themselves in the name of the abbey or Mossflower in order to be interred within the grounds.

Not many were terribly rankled when they made the journey to the abbey and found that their loved ones would be laid to rest outside the abbey walls though. True to the nature of the abbey, the "new" cemetery was as restful and lovely as the original. It should be, anyhow. Dachlan spent enough time on his knees tugging up weeds that the ground should sparkle!

The crisp morning air and the serene, if unsettling, cemetery grounds were to be abandoned now, exchanged not even for the comparatively superior stuffiness of Stilltree's little cottage. Instead Dachlan's destination was below the earth. Cellar doors and a long flight of shallow stone steps, led to a gloomy chamber that had a subterranean chill to it even during the summer. In that regard it was not dissimilar to Redwall's wine cellar, though it provided far less mirth. There were no lively tastings or drinking games in that room, and rather than storing wine, it was used to store coffins, tools, and of course… the stone slab upon which laid the deceased Friar Marbury.

Dachlan's muzzle wrinkled at the stench of death that pervaded the room, the coolness of the cellar not able to completely prevent the corpse from starting to rot. It was a familiar scent to him, one that every body, no matter how fresh, bore. All that rotting did was amplify it. Stepping over to it, the pinched look remained on his face. After all, though he'd gotten on well enough with the late friar, the fond memories weren't half enough to make Marbury's corpse any less repulsive.

Many beasts would remember just how peaceful the dead were made to look before their burial, but Dachlan could only think of the events that brought them to the slab in the first place, as well as the toil he had to expend in order to bring on that faux-peacefulness that was so very prized during a funeral. It would be a stark contrast to what he looked like at that moment. He didn't look asleep when his eyes stared vacantly upwards in shock, his fur was untidy, and there clung to it that rancid stench.

"So, fox, here's the body. I've already stripped it out of that dirty robe. What do you do next?"

Stilltree was testing him. As Dachlan was expected to take on more and more of Stilltree's tasks in light of his advancing age, so too what he expected to know how to perform the tasks by himself. After all, the squirrel wouldn't be there to look over his shoulder and tell him that he was doing something wrong. To Dachlan's great misfortune, Stilltree was more than happy to do just that until he did, at last, pass on, and he seize onto Dachlan's mistakes as a pike would bite down on warm flesh.

Trying not to breathe through his sensitive nose, Dachlan answered, "Firs' we bathe 'im, then we comb the fur, an' then-"

Thump! Stilltree brought down the oak walking stick down on Dachlan's back, just on the cusp of being painful, but more making it clear that he was being disgraced and whacked like a troublesome cub.

"Wrong! Use your eyes, fox! What do you see amiss? What _don't_ the mourners want to look at?"

At first Dachlan was inclined to argue with Stilltree and insist that nothing was wrong aside from ruffled fur and a bad smell, typical faults of dead bodies that were to be disguised later, but a quick glance over Friar Marbury's face made him realize what he'd missed. When Friar Marbury's heart simply gave out, he'd been chopping vegetables in preparation for that night's dinner, and upon falling, the knife skidded across his brow and neatly sliced his ear from the center to the tip, the two halves able to flop about like the tongue of a snake. Even after all these years amongst woodlanders, Dachlan had forgotten that such markings were uncommon to them. No doubt the rest of Redwall would prefer not to have to see an open wound as they bid the friar farewell at the gates of the Dark Forest.

"Aight'," sighed Dachlan. "Needle an' thread ta close up 'is ear firs' then."

Stilltree grunted and gave a nod, then gestured towards the table that held all the various supplies. Dachlan ran his paws over the tools as he passed them: scissors, knives, clippers, pliers, metal splints, and… ah, needles. He took them and some of the thread. Holding the needle's eye close to his own, he tried to thread it, missing several times on his own, plus a few more once his nerves began to fray as he felt Strilltree growing impatient behind him. The ceaseless paw-tapping was driving him mad!

With the needle finally threaded he could get to work. Holding the two halves of the ear together, Dachlan shoved the needle down through the skin without flinching. Sewing a deadbeast up wasn't like giving stitches to the living, after all, Friar Marbury wasn't being put through any pain, and so it was more like sewing up a rip in cloth rather than skin. Dachlan's mind wandered back to the time he'd gone to the infirmary to pinch a few herbs to soothe a hacking cough he'd picked up, and walked in on a dibbun getting stitches. The mousebabe was putting up a truly terrific fuss, and the healer required assistance to restrain him. Whatever Dachlan's distaste for the job he had to do, he could at least be relieved that Friar Marbury wasn't going to flail around and slap him in the eye.

Whump! Stilltree's walking stick thudded down on Dachlan's shoulder for the day's second blow, causing him to stick the needle straight into the pawpad on one of his fingers. The bloody finger Dachlan shoved into his muzzle muffled his cursing, but unfortunately Stilltree's speech was unhindered.

"What in the Hellgates below are you doing?! Untie those stitches and do it again! And this time, hide the stitching on the side of the ear nobeast is going to see!"

The squirrel grabbed the dropped needle and narrowed his eyes to see the thread, grumbling under his breath about his eyesight not being what it once was.

"And while you're at it, how about you use a thread that matches the friar's fur? This is black, it's not going to blend in with light brown!"

Ears ringing and cheeks hot from being berated, Dachlan got the proper color thread, cut the old thread out, and started again, this time hiding his stitches behind Marbury's ear. The slit slowly closed and the gash on the friar's brow followed, though thankfully there was ample fur left that could be combed over to hide the work that was done there.

From there, the corpse had to be bathed, which involved several trips to the well for Dachlan, followed by heating the tub over a fire pit so that the water was hot enough so that the filth would be easier to scrub out of Marbury's pelt. It seemed to Dachlan that beasts invariably fell into things when they died, whether it was mud, blood, or strawberry jam. In Marbury's case he'd managed to upend a jar of honey onto himself on his way to the floor.

Dachlan thought about the times he'd heard the caretakers complaining about how much of a task it was to bathe the brattier dibbuns of the abbey, but in his opinion, it didn't even approach the grotesque experience of having to scrub at a naked, lifeless beast. Surely it would be preferable to be made to bathe the most unruly cub in the world than to have some lifeless thing staring as Dachlan scoured off both grime and the last shreds of its dignity for the sake of making it prettier. It was strange that woodlanders placed such emphasis on corpses being pretty before they were buried. What would even make them think that death should be pretty to begin with?

At the very least musing over woodlanders' strange quirks made the work feel like it went by a little faster, and Dachlan was glad when it was all done with. From there the body was hauled out of the tub, dried off, and garbed in a clean Redwall habit. By then Dachlan was starting to feel the fatigue that came with hauling so much dead weight around. The ex-friar was not a particularly light beast, despite being a mouse, and having to haul him over his shoulder made the fox's muscles burn and beg for a rest. He ignored the urge. There was no rest while Stilltree was watching him.

The coffin was already built and laid out in the cellar. It was a simple affair, something Dachlan was taught how to make by himself, save for the pair of hinges that kept the lid on. An abbey pillow gave the late friar a place to rest his head, and a blanket provided both the lining and the shroud for when it came time to close the coffin.

Grunting and huffing, Dachlan lowered Marbury into the coffin, getting him in roughly the right position before kneeling down to adjust him. It would hardly make the friar look restful if it appeared that Dachlan had just dumped him in. The clothes couldn't be rumpled, and the body had to sit in such a way that it appeared to be sleeping. In order to ensure that there was no chance of anybeast smelling anything offensive, pungent pine branches were stuffed down the friar's habit.

The coffin was temporarily shut, and with considerable effort Dachlan managed to lift it enough to shove a sturdy board with wheels attached to it underneath the coffin. After tying it down, Dachlan attached a lead and hauled it up the stairs by use of a ramp that a thoughtful mole crew installed alongside them.

Once at the top of the stairs, Dachlan leaned against the wall, huffing lightly from exertion and taking advantage of Stilltree's slow hobbling up the stairs to get a moment's rest. Much to Dachlan's dismay, the squirrel didn't slip halfway up and tumble back down, and once he got to the top he jabbed at Dachlan with that cursed staff again, urging him on to the graveyard.

"Come on! We can't be late to the grave. It wouldn't do for the mourners to get there before the corpse."

After the row with Friar Hollan, Dachlan was even less patient with Stilltree than normal, and was beginning to wonder juts how good it might feel to snatch away the walking stick and break it over the old squirrel's head. Instead he settled for grumbling out, "Was jes' takin' a break. Ol' Friar Mar'bry en't goin' nowhere!"

In the end, as always, Stilltree's skull went unbroken and Dachlan did as he was told. The fox wasn't unfamiliar with the concept of earning his keep, and as little as he liked certain aspects of it, life in Redwall was far cozier than the nomadic wandering of his early youth. Losing that because he was reluctant to do his part was something he was loath to do.

The coffin was joined a solid oak table on top of a sturdy cart kept near Stilltree's cottage for hauling heavy things, which was easy enough once Dachlan managed to get the right leverage with the assistance of his shovel. Likewise the walk down to the grave wasn't difficult either, the wheels of the cart creaking gently behind him as he strolled to the graveyard, shaded by trees through the entire walk. It was an almost pleasant excursion, enough so that he had to remind himself not to allow his face to become too lighthearted while he was towing a deadbeast behind him.

Abbess Plennigreen was already waiting at the grave, prayer book clasped to her chest as she prepared to lay one of Redwall's beloved sons to rest, giving directions to four abbeybeasts on where best to put the table on which the coffin would be set.

Accompanying her as well was the current skipper of the otters, a burly northern sea otter named Ruddred. He was a titan of a beast and bore more scuffmarks than a grindstone, having lived a harsh life in the cruel Northlands before finding a home for his hold amongst the otters of Mossflower. He held the abbess' bookstand and basket of funerary ornaments as though they were nothing, and refused to allow her to tote around anything more than her prayer book.

The abbey champion wiped sweat from his brow as he and the others pulled the table from the cart and set down it down on even ground. Gavin Vole insisted on helping in some manner, finding it unbecoming for the abbey champion not to play some small part in laying one of his fellow abbeybeasts to rest. Not to mention that a kind word from the champion had a tendency to soothe, at least a bit, the sorrows of grieving beasts. Ever cautious, the sword of Martin the Warrior was slung across his back and politely tucked under a cloak, only the hilt and gleaming pommelstone showing. Much like the abbess, he was a practical beast, and though he was squat and somewhat dumpy, his eyes shone with warrior sharpness that the battle hardened Skipper Ruddred could respect.

As it was during every other funeral Dachlan participated in, setup was a solemn affair, with little more than nods, grunts, paw gestures, and brief questions passing between the present beasts.

"Is the friar ready?" asked Abbess Plennigreen.

"Aye," replied Stilltree. "He's ready."

Skipper Ruddred silently insisted on helping Dachlan carry the coffin off of the cart so it didn't have to touch the dewy grass, and Dachlan accepted with sincere reluctance, though this was not because of any particular pride in his job. He despised the otter, a feeling which harkened back to his youth, as Ruddred was one of the few abbeybeasts willing to actually paddle Dachlan when he'd been particularly wretched, and it was a task that skipper wasn't inclined to be gentle with. Naturally such things ended when Dachlan was older, but only after a fight that left a massive gash in Reddred's arm where Dachlan bit him. That ended the paddlings, but under the threat of temporary banishment should he do that again. As it was, he'd ended up with a month's worth of punishment work as a trade-off. Dachlan suspected that the otter didn't care for him much either, especially considering that the otter sometimes whispered about it being dangerous to keep an adult fox in the abbey.

A tablecloth was laid out, then the coffin set upon it, then candlesticks in front of the coffins, and the oak table was made presentable. The abbess' bookstand was placed at the head of the table, and at the foot were a few braziers stripped of their kindling so flowers could be set inside or hung upon them. Invariably the maids of Redwall ensured that the departed, no matter who, received as many wreaths and bouquets as would a prince.

The abbess set about lighting the candles with solemn grace, making sure that everything was just as it should be before lifting the lid of the coffin. A sad smile crossed her face, and she said, "He looks so very peaceful, though not at all like he's asleep. I remember Friar Marbury slept with his mouth agape and snored something terrible. To think that sound will be missed…"

"Please forgive me," Abbess Plennigreen continued as she turned to Dachlan and Stilltree. "You two did a lovely job."

Before Dachlan could say anything, Stilltree spoke up. "Twas nothing, abbess. The fox still has much to learn though. Can't seem to always follow orders."

Dachlan's paws tightened around his shovel, his jaw set, but he said nothing. Stilltree would only make the next day that much harder if he did.

"Young ones do often need guidance before they make a task their own," replied the abbess. She was, at least, aware that Stilltree could be rather tight-lipped when it came to praise, or even approval.

"Very true, mother abbess. But one can only do so much when dealing with vermin."

By then, beasts who came to pay their respects were starting to trickle towards the grave, most of the remnants of Redwall Abbey following in their wake. The friar was very much beloved, and the weeping malebeasts and maids alike made firm testament to that fact. In particular were the moles, who strode to the scene in a single, shoulder-to-shoulder cluster of boo-hooing, moaning, and blowing noses. It illustrated the reason why mole crews weren't given the task of digging graves and burying bodies. Moles were simply too big-hearted and sensitive to do such a grisly and depressing task. It was left to more stoic beasts.

Stilltree signaled Dachlan with his most-preferred method, jabbing him with the oak staff and growling, "Get behind that tree. The mourners don't need the gravedigger standing about, looking eager to bury the friar and ruining everything, especially not a vermin gravedigger."

Again Dachlan did as he was told, though he had to clamp his teeth down on his own tongue to avoid saying something that would make a scene. In silence he slipped behind the tree, leaning heavily against it. At the very least some of the burn was diminished by the knowledge that he could always pay his respects later once everyone left. Dachlan was, after all, the last beast who would see the coffin before it was covered by six feet of earth, and he wasn't afraid to hop down into the hole and lift the lid for one more peek. Marbury, though a woodlander, was somebeast that Dachlan did at least like enough for that, if only for making those moments in Dachlan's youth when he'd been punished with pan-scrubbing duty a little less awful by giving him treats when the work was done.

From his spot behind the tree, Dachlan could hear Abbess Plennigreen reading the friar his rites, followed by a few prayers and passages mostly for the comfort of the mourners. After all, they were the ones who needed to hear that Friar Marbury was, even as they attended his funeral, living on in the Dark Forest.

_After all_, thought Dachlan. _Friar Marbury knows whether he's in 'ellgates or not. He en't goin' ta get anythin' from prayers._

Eventually beasts who knew him would take to the abbess' stand and talk a bit about the friar and what they would fondly remember about him, but Dachlan was more or less finished with paying attention to the service. From within his habit folds he'd drawn a stick of wood and a whittling knife, beginning another piece of a woodwork he'd been working on. What started as an excuse to carry a knife inside Redwall Abbey when armaments for anyone but warriors were frowned upon had become a genuine hobby, and one that he intended to capitalize on later that day.

With his mind and his paws occupied, the service passed quickly, and before long the abbess laid her paw upon his shoulder and said, "We're finished. Our dear friar is ready to be buried now."

"Yes, mother abbess," responded Dachlan as he put away his knife and the scrap of wood that was slowly turning into a tiny paw.

As Dachlan walked towards the grave, he passed by all the other beasts on their way back to Redwall Abbey, no doubt for a much needed pick-me-up before the festival that would act as Friar Marbury's wake. Much as Dachlan wished he could go back to the abbey grounds himself, he still had to make sure that Friar Marbury was tucked into his grave.

His patience was a bit strained by Foremole Muddle's lingering though. It was only the small amount of tact that Stilltree had burned into him that kept Dachlan from telling the moles to stop wringing their handkerchiefs and blubbering, then shooing them off where they wouldn't be in the way of his duties.

"Burr hurr hurr! Oi serpently do 'member 'ee froir never lettin' anybeast leave 'is kitchers widdout two big clawfuls of vikkles! Oi'll be missin' 'is smoilin' face as mucher 'is deeper 'n' ever pie!"

The other two members of the molecrew who'd chosen to stay with the foremole were too overcome to do anything other than wail and nod their velvety heads.

"Oi'll neber be able to look inna gurt big hole the same way fer as long as Oi'll be livin'!" continued Muddle as he looked down at the coffin.

Fortunately, Mother Cinnarae was there to keep the foremole from distressing himself even further, and to keep Dachlan from losing his patience and chasing the lot of them off with his shovel.

"Come now, foremole. That's quite enough weeping for the time being. Friar Marbury's festival is waiting for you and the rest of your crew. We all know they won't do anything without you there," said the badger, placing a large paw upon Foremole Muddle's shoulder.

Promptly Mother Cinnarae's paw became a larger, fuzzier version of the sopping wet handkerchief the foremole clutched in his claws. It was only patience and sympathy that kept the badgermum from tugging her arm back and drying it on her dress.

"Oi bain't givin' a single thought ter fessivals! Oi'm wallowin' in despurr!"

"Right, that's enough of that," stated Mother Cinnarae. With a pair of mighty scoops, the badger hoisted Foremole Muddle over one shoulder and caught both of his companions under the opposite arm, carrying the three of them like they were sacks of flour.

Whether the moles wished to or not, Mother Cinnarae intended to haul them to lunch to chase away their sorrows, striding towards Redwall Abbey with purpose in her step. She didn't even acknowledge the protests of the still-blubbering moles, but she did acknowledge Dachlan.

"Good day, Dachlan," she said, her voice sounding full of forced overgladness at seeing him, as though he were a beast she'd just met and were trying to make a good impression on.

Those three simple words brought on a stronger reaction in the young fox than they should. His fur bristled, his spine went rigid, and he found his paws starting to shake with what could only be described as pent up hatred. Dachlan didn't return the greeting, instead turning his head away, laying his ears flat and trying to keep from growling at the badger as she passed. Other than that, he made no effort to pretend that he wasn't hostile.

As he was pointedly ignoring her, Dachlan didn't notice the frown that crossed her craggy, worn features at how he was continuing his rather unfair campaign of hostility. It was something that she could not understand. After all, they'd never had any dispute, nor did they speak to each other at all beyond Mother Cinnarae's attempts at addressing him. It could not even be said that she'd even been an overly harsh disciplinarian during his youth, as she'd never been in any position to be his caretaker. The hatred Dachlan harbored towards badgers from his youth may have grown quieter, but it hadn't lost any of its intensity.

The fox was much relieved that he could hear Mother Cinnarae's plodding pawsteps fading away, and once his fur fell back against his skin and the beating in his chest became normal once more, he went back to his task.

Looking into the grave, Dachlan let out a sigh of relief that the pallbearers had the foresight to lower the coffin into the grave for him. Every now and again Dachlan would have to lower the coffin into the grave by himself, and without variation it was a clumsy affair. Often it was due to spontaneous rain, so the ground tended to be spongy and yielding. He could still remember the time he'd slipped and fallen into the grave, only for the coffin to slide in right on top of him and press him into the muck at the bottom of the hole. Dachlan shuddered. Almost drowning in mud was a nightmare experience the memory of which he would take to his grave.

Still, there was no rain this time, and nothing to fear from hopping down into the hole. He thumbed open the pin that held the lid closed and opened it one last time to regard Friar Marbury. Though he had some fondness for the friar, Dachlan refused to show it by bawling or talking to a dead body like some foolish woodlander, instead choosing to simply stare at the cloth-wrapped husk in silence. When at last Dachlan grew impatient with the quiet, he shrugged, gave the friar a final nod and closed the coffin again, climbing out and getting to work.

It didn't take long for Dachlan to scoop the mound of dirt back into the hole; thankfully filling in a hole was vastly easier than digging it. By midday it was all over. Friar Marbury was replaced with an earthen mound, and Dachlan was ready to get on with the rest of the day. He hurried the cart back to Stilltree's cottage and took advantage of the squirrel's well to wash his paws and footpaws; he'd never hear the end of it if he tracked dirt into Redwall and sat down at the dinner table to grab silverware with dirt-stained pawpads.

Redwall festivals were well reknowned for being some of the best events one could hope to enjoy in all of Mossflower, and he wasn't about to miss his part in it just because some prissy woodlanders were afraid of a bit of good, clean dirt. Even Dachlan couldn't help but grin a little more genuinely than normal as he strode towards the abbey.


End file.
